Going to the Florida Antiquarian Book Fair

No Longer M.I.A.

I know, I know...I've been Missing in Action for a while. I meant to post on and off last year (and, actually, since In Praise of Libraries, posted in August of 2022). But somehow, time sort-of slipped away, and it was another week, another month...Yeah, like that never happens, right?

So, last year here was crazy, ending with a family member's trip to the E.R. on Christmas Eve afternoon, which was a Sunday. We got there at 3:00 PM, I had to go searching for a 24-hour pharmacy around 6:30 (since most pharmacies close here at six on Sunday, and would not reopen until Tuesday), he came home after 8:00 PM. Yeah, that was fun. Suffice it to say, quite of bit of last year was along the same fun roller coaster ride.

So, fast forward to now. This past Saturday, my son M. and I went to the Florida Antiquarian Book Fair. We try to go every year, usually on Saturday. It's held from Friday through Sunday; Friday's hours are mostly late afternoon and early evening, and Sundays just don't work for us. So Saturdays are it.

Coliseum

As far as I know, it's always been held at the St. Petersburg, Florida's Coliseum. If you've ever been there, especially inside, you probably know that it's kind-of cool in an off-beat sort-of way. It also made it into the movie Cocoon (the scene where the old couples are dancing). If you've never been there, the strands of lights hanging from the ceiling (which are seen in the movie) are there year 'round.

This year's book fair, showing the lights and some of the crowd

Coliseum, from the 2015 Antiquarian Book Fair, showing the lights

This year, after paying for our tickets just inside and going into the main room, we drifted toward the left. Two bookstores that show there every year are among our favorites: Glover's Bookery from Lexington, Kentucky, and Lighthouse Books, now located in Dade City, Florida (formerly from St. Petersburg).

It seems that every year, M. finds several old editions of different sci fi magazines at Glover's, and tries to decide which ones to get; this year, he snagged two Astounding Magazines, one from 1936, the other from 1938. (Yeah, he goes for that sort of stuff.) I helped him find the boxes of pulp magazines and read off a few covers until he found what he wanted.

Next, we drifted towards Lighthouse Books. We used to stop by the store periodically when it was still located in St. Pete. The pictures of the new Dade City store looks like it was a good move for Michael, the owner. M. and I both got a chance to talk with Michael for a few minutes, and he acknowledged that he and the store are doing well in their new location. (Hint: If you're ever in Dade City, Florida, check out Lighthouse Books. Good people, good vibes, etc.

Glover's Bookery's stall. The crates with the pulp magazines where M. found the Astounding Magazines are directly under the picture of Ernest Hemingway.

The entrance to Lighthouse Books' stall, taken from Glover's Bookery. Lighthouse Books' owner, Michael, can be partially seen through the crate slats holding Hemingway up.

M. and I wandered around on our own for a while before meeting back up at the food court. After a snack, and hitting up the restroom (an art deco-ish room), we wandered a little more before our ride showed up.

While I didn't buy any books this year, I have in the past. But all told, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves.

Back in Time Books

Other shots

In Praise of Libraries

I have had an affinity for libraries ever since I can remember. There's something special, an almost reverance, about them, in a happy, chaotic way.

My first memories of libraries were from elemenary school in New York (state, not city). Every week, we had certain days for different activities: art, music, and the library. On library day, we had 30 to 45 minutes to look through the books and choose one or two to bring home for the next week. Just think: being a child who has an adult telling us when to get up, what to eat, when to go to bed, but being able to pick our own book to enjoy for the next week or two. Is that great? You bet it is!

I'm sure that there was a public library in Yorktown, where I lived during my elementary school years, but I really don't remember it. But I do remember the school library fondly, devouring book after book.

The summer after fraduating elementary school, we moved to a small town in Connecticut, tucked in the northeast corner. It was an older two story house on two acres of land, and with a library within walking distance. The old library building now houses a local historical museum, with a larger library in another part of town, no longer within walking distance of our old house, at least judging from what I've found online.

When we lived in Thompson, my sister and I would head for the library, sometimes with our younger brother in tow.

During the school year, there was plenty of time spent in the research room, doing homework, looking up stuff for reports, and more.

Summertime, though, the library held events for kids, making reading fun, with parties and prizes, depending on how many books we had read over the summer. It was not uncommon for groups of kids comparing notes on which books were worth a read.

The only down side of the library, at the time (mid- to late-1960s) was that the library closed at noon on Saturdays, and didn't reopen until Monday morning. Dad and I would run errands Saturday mornings. Usually, around 11:15, I'd start asking the time, and Dad knew what I wanted, and would try to hurry. I'm not sure how often we'd get home by 11:45, and I'd run as fast as my legs would carry me to get to the library, find a book or two, and check them out before the noon closing.

After three years, we moved to the next town over, and discovered the Woodstock library. The only bad thing was that it wasn't in walking distance.

Fast forward to Florida. The city I now live in (with part of my family) has upgraded their public library at least four or five times since I moved here.

During one upgrade, when my kids were young, our lives were undergoing some upheavals. The one constant that we looked forward to was our weekly trips to the library. Every Wednesday, we'd head out after dinner, and hang out there until its 8:30 closing, then swing through McDonald's for ice cream cones.

It was during this upgrade that I discovered Gloria Naylor's The Women of Brewster Place, along with several other goodies, while the kids made their own reading memories.

During another renovation, this one from the late 1990s to the beginning of 2001, the library building underwent a total overhaul. But, of course, the city leaders knew that they didn't want to deprive the citizens of a library; books, staff, everything and everyone were temporarily moved to the lower level of a nearby mall. During this shift, with stacks of fiction, non-fiction, children's books, and research areas all jumbled around, everyone searching for their favorite books, it was impossible not to stumble across new books and authors we might have otherwise overlooked.

It was during one of these mall-library trips that I discovered Anne Lamott's amazing and wonderful book Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith. Until then, I'd never heard of Anne Lamott; now, I've got the better part of a shelf full of her books.

Note: Traveling Mercies is followed by Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith and Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith. These are filled with essays by a left-wing Christian writer; her writings are totally relatable.

One of my sons and I still try to get to the library at least once a week, where we pick up a couple of books, movies on DVD and blue-ray, CDS, and more. We both have great memories of libraries, and are making more great library memories.

But why, exactly, are libraries so important? Sure, you can borrow books, and in many libraries now, movies, audio books, music CDs, and more, thus saving you money. I've heard that some libraries even have a line at the end of the reciept for when the books are due back that reads, "You saved (this much money) borrowing materials this year."

But there's so much more...so many reasons libraries are important. In her book Grace (Eventually), Anne Lamott has a piece titled "Steinbeck Country." In this piece, she mentions that California's governor at the time had planned to close several public libraries in Salinas. This, of course, did not set well with the reading (and writing) public; the protests helped pursuade the higher-ups to keep the libraries open.

Many libraries have after-school programs for kids so that they have a safe place to hang out, and even get help with homework. This is especially important for kids whose parents work and who worry about kids heading home to an empty house.

There are computers with internet; this is useful for those who can't afford a computer (including those who can't afford to get a computer fixed), and who need to go online for job searches, online classes, or to simply keep in touch via email.

Another plus is a variety of informal classes to enrich the community. The local library where I live - the Barbara S. Ponce Public Library, in Pinellas Park, Florida - offers American Sign Language classes, as well as an upcoming financial wellness class, reading time for kids, afternoon movies, computer classes, and more.

During tax season, AARP has tax preparers helping people file their taxes free of charge at several of the libraries in Pinellas County, Florida; I imagine they offer this service at other libraries, too.

There are plenty of homeless people in the area; the library offers a safe, air conditioned place to hang out during the day, where they have access to computers (job searches, housing searches, etc).

Sure, there are books one can borrow at the library. But it is so much more. A town without a library is not a place I would want to live.

Karma Kitty - Rest in Peace

It's been a rough couple of months. First, I managed to fall, fracturing a vertebrae. While that has pretty much healed, we ended up losing Karma Kitty.

But first, let me back up just a little.

"Hey, I've found the perfect cat for you." My friend Kevin told me this while I was in his cab. I'd met him back when we both drove cab, years ago.

"I already have a cat," I reminded him.

But our old black cat, E.B. White, was fading fast. She had been sick for a while, and was in the middle of quite a few family members who died over a two-year period.

E.B. White

"But you need the kitten," Kevin insisted. He'd even named the kitten Karma.

(To cut this part of the story short, you can read about Karma, Drexie, Osha and E.B. here. The entire part of when Kevin delivered Karma is especially good for a laugh.)

Kevin

Anyway, fast forward to the present. Karma Kitty and Drexie Calabash were a month apart in age, and had both recently turned 15 years old. According to a chart I'd seen, that qualifies them as geriatric cats, as in "forget the numbers, they're very, very old." They were both showing their age, Karma more so than Drexie.

Up until the last year or so, Karma had been twice Drexie's size, starting when they were kittens. When we adopted Drexie, a month after Kevin brought us Karma, he spent the day whooping up on her. This was his house, he'd been here first, how dare she invade his territory. I kept them separated as much as possible.

The next day, I called our vets' office in tears, sure I was going to have to bring Drexie back. Fortunately, the vet tech who answered the phone had quite a menagerie of pets.

"Not to worry," she said over the phone. "I go through this every time I bring a new cat into the house."

She added that it might take up to two weeks for them to work it out, but that it would all be okay.

That afternoon, it did get worked out. Karma went to beat up Drexie again, only this time, she was tired of him being a bully. She reared up on her back legs, as only a tiny kitten can, wrapped her front legs around his head, and rolled onto her side. Of course, Karma had no choice but to roll over, too, at which point, Drexie started kicking his face and head hard with her back paws while biting his ears.

It took Karma a minute to work his way loose, and he backed up, eyeing the smaller cat. Then, on for a second attack, and Drexie did the same thing! By the third round of "I'll-whoop-your-butt-oh-no-you-won't," Karma backed up, eyed Drexie, and decided she could stay.

It took another few days for them to decide to be friends, but after that, they were basically inseparable.

At his heaviest, Karm weighed 12-pounds and change, while Drexie hovered just above six pounds. After a bout of cystitis, when he had to go on a special (read: expensive) diet, he did lose a couple of pounds, but not much. He was still muscular, and was still twice Drexie's size.

Karma Kitty

"I can haz tuna?!" - photo by J. Goff

Drexie

Someone's in the kitchen with Drexie...

I've written about these two time and time again over the years. They've kept life interesting, to put it mildly.

But several months ago, maybe a little longer, Karma really started going down hill. I'd taken Drexie in, as she had some minor aging problems going on. The meds seemed to help, but it did make her gain a little weight. I'd also noticed, during this time, that Karma was losing weight, so I brought him in to see Dr. E. While all the vets who share the office are fantastic (trust me, if you're in Pinellas County, FL and need a vet, leave a comment, and I'll let you know the animal hospital), Dr. E. and Dr. G. got the least amount of static from Karm. At this point, though, I did have to give Karma something to keep his anxiety down a little (i.e. got him zonked out).

Yes, he had lost weight; it turns out, he was having kidney issues, and had to go onto another (more expensive) food, as well as meds.

His weight held (sort-of) for a while, but soon, the weight dropped more and more. When he was seen on June 14, he was below six pounds.

We figured the end was coming sooner or later...

Then, on Thursday, June 23, he really got worse. He didn't want to eat, went to drink some water, then had trouble walking. His front end seemed to be functioning, but his back legs were wobbling like a drunk who'd had way too much to drink. He also threw up the water.

I called the vets' office. Dr. G. could see Karma around noon...

I made sure Karma got tons of snuggles over the next hour or so before bringing him in. Turns out, he'd lost another half-a-pound in just nine days. He was also a little dehydrated, and had developed a heart murmer, which made giving him fluids at the vets' office a little dicey.

After talking with the vet, we decided it would be best for Karma to be put to sleep. Left alone to die on his own, it was probably not more than a couple of days, at most, during which time, he'd be in pain.

I stayed with Karma while he was given a sedative, then cuddled him and told him how much we all loved him, including Drexie. After a few minutes, he recieved another shot, and drifted off.

I must have gone through most of a box of tissues during this time. This was our mini-panther, our Karma.

We had him cremated by himself, so that we now have his ashes in a box in our living room. We also have a paw print, along with some of his fur in a clear bag. (We used to call him our velvet panther.)

The next day, the vets' office sent a small floral arrangement, with a card, something very appreciated. Karma was family.

Drexie obviously misses her big brother, as does everyone else in the house.

Rest in peace, Karma. You were a sweet-heart.

Life Goes On, Somewhat Crazily

I realize I've been M.I.A. since last August. Even then, I didn't post much last year; from the looks of things, there were four (!) posts all of last year.

Of course, getting started here again has been interesting, to say the least. Anyone who's a writer (or artist of any sort) can related that too much time off makes it a little difficult to get motivated to head off in a forward direction.

But what the heck, I'm back.

Several weeks ago, I came so close to cutting my hair short (at least, short for me). The last time I had a major hair cut was for a job I'd landed, back in 1980. I can already hear at least one or two people thinking, Yikes! No need to tell me that was a long dang time ago.

The job I'd landed was working for a local fire department. The department had hired eight of us (if I remember correctly), including two women. (This is where your's truly fits in.) There was only one other department in our county, here on the west coast of Florida, that had a female firefighter; she'd been on the job less than a year.

I had already started off, near the end of 1979, as a volunteer with Pinellas Park Fire Department, shortly after the department had hired a new chief, so I had a somewhat vague idea of what to look forward to.

The department Jane and I were hired on at seemed okay with the length of my hair. I'd start off my shift with my hair in a braid. If we had a fire, and needed to wear our bunker gear, it was no big deal to grab the end of the braid, put said braid on top of my head, put my helmet on, and immediately, no hair showed.

However, when we started at the local fire academy, the then-head of the academy made it clear that I had to have my hair cut above my shirt collar. After all, that was how short the men had to have their hair. While our chief went to bat for me, I still had to get it cut short. Problem was, having it that short, I couldn't braid it and keep all the hair from sticking out from under the helmet.

At that point, I vowed never to cut my hair again, until I was good and ready.

So why was I thinking of cutting it recently? Well...Six weeks ago, I slipped and fell, landing hard on my back. Instant excruciating pain.

Silly me. Once I was able to move, and actually talk (I'd spent several minutes babbling, leaving my sons thinking I'd had a stroke), I got up and decided to take a shower. I was sure I'd simply pulled a few muscles in my back.

An hour or two later, though, when the pain showed no sign of subsiding, I agreed to go to a local free-standing ER to get it checked out. As it turned out, I'd fractured one of my vertibrae! No wonder it hurt!

Several hours later, after a room opened up in the main hospital (several miles away, with an in-house ER), I was transferred by ambulance and taken straight up to the assigned room, where I spent the weekend. While there, I ended up with an MRI lasting about half-an-hour (never a fun thing for someone who's claustrophobic). Fortunately, it turned out okay, still a fracture, but without further complications.

Two days later, I got to come home. But for six weeks, I've been stuck wearing a dang back brace. The first coupld of days, my hair kept getting caught in the brace; it was then that I seriously thought about cutting my hair shoulder-length. I didn't, though, and I'm now glad I didn't.

It's only a few more days until I get another X-ray to see if the back has healed enough to do without the back brace. Siiiiigh...

Also, to throw in some more fun, our two cats are now 15 years old, and starting to really show their age. Karma is showing it a little harder than is sister, Drexie, is. But either way, Karma and Drexie are getting up there.

At one time, Karma had topped off at 12-pounds and change; he's now down to 5.8 pounds, and has the beginnings of kidney issues, while Drexi, who used to be 6-pounds, is a little closer to 7 pounds now. They both seem to sleep more these days. Karma is also showing some signs of slowing down, and not able to jump as well as he used to.

Anyone who has had cats (or dogs, or any other pets) and who've gotten seriously attached to the pets knows how bitter-sweet it can be, watching the decline, knowing it's simply a matter of time when the pets are no longer around. That's what we're looking at with Karma and Drexie. I know we'll all be basket-cases when their time comes. But in the meantime, they'll get all the love, cuddles, and treats we can give them.

One last word: love your family, even the pets.

Karma Kitty

Drexie Calabash

Scammers, or Didn't I have that tattoo that said "Gullible" removed?

Since so many scammers are calling again, I'm reposting this gem that I originally posted on Monday, January 14, 2013. You can also check out For Anyone Needing a Smile - and a Lesson Dealing with Scammers. Enjoy!

I just love people who try to scam others.

Please reread that last line with the touch of sarcasm that I wrote it with. Heck, forget the touch of sarcasm; try a smack upside the head of it.

The Idiot squad is at it again. They called me this morning.

Note: Be forewarned, and don't be taken in by these, ah-hem, jerks, idiots, etc. If Microsoft, Apple, or any other computer-related group needs to touch base with you, I can assure you, it won't be because they detect a virus on your computer from a remote location. True, there is a way for a legitimate technician (such as someone really, really, really with Microsoft or Apple) to trouble-shoot from a remote location. But that comes only after you have called them with a problem, not the other way around.

These particular scammers are the phone equivalent to seeing two or three people walking down the street, looking like they've just crawled out of the sewer system. As one person walks up your driveway to knock on your door, the other one or two are knocking on your neighbors' doors. You open the door to hear, "Hello, Ma'am (or Sir), I'm the head of Ford Motor Company and I'm here to tell you that your Crown Vic has a major problem. The driveshaft is about to fall out, as is the engine." Meanwhile, his cohorts are telling your neighbors that they're with Toyota and Chevy; when they get down the street, they'll be with VW, Cadillac, and...Well, you get the idea. You wouldn't fall for the scam that way, and you shouldn't fall for it if someone calls saying that they've detected a virus on your PC. (Memorize this and the previous paragraph; if you fall for it, don't say I didn't warn you!) End of Note

Anyway, my phone rang and when I picked up, I had to say "hi" twice (the second time in my I'm-really-not-in-the-mood-for-B.S. voice).

"Yes," said a heavily accented voice, "this is the Windows computer company. Is this the owner/operator for the computer system?"

Hmmm...my scam detection alert system started buzzing, along my resident inner super-hero; I've dubbed her Her Royal Snarkiness.

"Yes," I answer in my most insincere sweet voice. "What do you want?"

"I am here calling you to..."

"Wait, wait, where, exactly, is here?"

"Excuse me?"

"Yes, you said you are here calling me. Where, exactly, is here?"

"Oh, yes. I am on the phone calling you from Microsoft computer company to tell you that our operating systems have detected a virus on your computer."

"Okay, so if your system is that intelligent that it can tell you that, it can also tell you where I am and who I am, right?"

A pause, before he goes on with, "You are there, and you are the owner/operator of that computer system." Oooh, what a quick learner! But not quick enough. He goes on, "So, your computer has a virus on it..."

"Which computer would that be?" I ask, in all my sweet snarkiness.

"Your computer!" comes the gleeful reply.

"My computer? Why, sir, I have five computers! Which one is the virus on?" This was a blatant exaggeration, since I have a laptop and a couple of desk tops.

I hear a gasp before he recovers. "Why, it looks like all of them have viruses!"

"Really? I wasn't aware that you would be so concerned with a virus on my five Macs!"

Now there's a longer pause before he asks, "Macs?"

"Yes, you know. Macs. They're made by Apple."

Dang, I hate when the line goes dead. Must've been a virus...

Comfort Food

I was looking over some of my older posts, and decided to revive Comfort Food, a post from Tuesday, September 13, 2016. It reminded me of all the comfort food from over the years, as well as family members, many of whom have passed away over the years. A few times have been updated for today. Example: the original post noted my Dad had died nine years ago; it's now fourteen years, which coesn't seem possible. I've also added a few photos. Enjoy.

I just finished off a bowl of butterscotch pudding. Actually, it was a double-serving of the stuff, but since two helpings were in one bowl, it only counts as one - at least, in my mind.

It was the kind of pudding that you cook, poured out in powder form into the milk, then stirred while it heats. I hate the instant stuff. My younger two love the instant chocolate pudding, and while I love chocolate, I can't handle the instant stuff. It never seems to set up exactly right. Plus, there's no film on top like the cooked pudding gets.

The butterscotch pudding was still warm, even though I'd let it cool for maybe ten minutes in the 'fridge, but it had gotten that film across the top. I know some people don't like the film (namely, the aforementioned younger two), but I do. It's part of what I liked about the stuff when I was growing up.

Why a post about butterscotch pudding? Why not? Especially when one is writing about comfort food.

Dad

Dad passed away nine years ago, in July, 2007. He'd known he was dying, and so did we. It was his fourth bout of cancer - first breast cancer (yes, men can and do get breast cancer), then prostate, then colon cancer, and finally, another round of prostate cancer. It was the second bout that took Dad. He'd beat it the first time - as well as the other two battles with cancer.

He and my step-mom Phyllis came to visit in April 2005. They'd planned to come in March, but ended up spending the month cleaning up a cellar after the water pipes had burst.

Dad and Phyllis

When they arrived, they spent close to a week, taking us out for dinner. We knew it would probably be the last time we saw Dad: the first night here, he told us that he'd gotten the prognosis that he had two years, at most. He lasted two years and change.

One afternoon while Dad and Phyl were here, they brought me to the nearby Publix for some shopping. Dad's never liked shopping; he'll decide what he wants or needs, hit the store, sprint around grabbing what stuff he'd planned to get, then head out. Left to my own devices, I'm the same way. In, sprint, get what I need, occasionally slow down to say hi to a friend or chat with one of the people fixing free food samples for shoppers ("Would you like some...today? The makings are on sale this week..."), dance around those taking their darn....sweet....time in front of whatever I'm trying to buy ("Excuse me...Excuse me...Excuse me..." Oh, heck, use the boarding house reach), then head on out.

But this time, Dad and Phyllis found their way to the pudding and gelatin aisle. I passed by as they were looking through the different flavors. I had a hunch Dad was looking for either butterscotch pudding (both of our favorite) or pistachio, his second favorite. I'll occasionally (read: once a year or so) eat pistachio pudding, mainly because it reminds me of Dad. I like it, too, but nowhere near as much as butterscotch. And yes, the pistachio has to be the cooked stuff, not instant.

I went past the other end of the pudding aisle a few minutes later, and saw that Dad and Phyl were still there. I found that a little odd (sprint, grab stuff, head for check-out), but let it slide. They were in a new store for them. Maybe they discovered some new flavor? Who knows, I thought.

But ten minutes later, when I was ready to leave and had been hunting for Dad and Phyllis, I found them still in the pudding aisle, checking out all the boxes.

"What's up?" I asked, coming up to them.

"Your dad's looking for butterscotch pudding," Phyllis informed me. "It has to be the cooked stuff."

"All they have is the instant kind," Dad added. "They have instant and cooked pudding in every other flavor, but none of the cooked butterscotch!"

A glance through the packages of both brands that Publix carried confirmed this. There was chocolate (instant and cooked), pistachio (instant and cooked), vanilla, tapioca, lemon - all instant and cooked. And butterscotch - which only came in instant.

"We haven't been able to find the cooked variety up in New York, either," Dad informed me.

Phyllis nodded. "It's true. We've tried getting it everywhere. No one seems to sell it anymore."

Butterscotch pudding - the cooked kind - was our favorite! It held memories for us. Like the time Mom flew to Florida for a week and Dad picked up enough butterscotch pudding to sink a battleship. There might have been a package or two left when Mom got back, but not much more.

I went in search of someone who worked at the store, and asked him about it. "Let me get the manager," he said.

A minute later, a manager arrived, only to inform us that they hadn't been able to get the stuff, but that he would personally try to find some somewhere for us. "But it might take a few weeks," he said.

This became a challenge for me. Dad was dying, darn it, and if he wanted the cooked version of butterscotch pudding, by God, I was going to find some!

Maybe two months after Dad and Phyl got back to New York, I found six lonely boxes of the cooked version on the shelves and bought all six, then shipped them up to Dad. A week later, I was in another store (not Publix, but another chain) and discovered that they had boxes and boxes of butterscotch pudding - the kinds you cook! I loaded up, then shipped these out the next day.

After that, once a month or so, I'd pick up a few more boxes at the store I'd located them at...until one day, more than a year after Dad and Phyllis had been here, less than a year before he died, Publix started carrying the stuff.

There are other foods that I've considered comfort food for years most of which have stories that go with them. (These stories I'll try to keep short.)

My grandmother - Mom's Mom - made a fantastic Oven Pot Roast, which I have posted in my original cooking blog, Confessions of a Foodie; the post was from January 19, 2013. Everyone in our family loved it.

One Sunday when my older three kids were young, I used Grandma's recipe to bake up her Oven Pot Roast. It smelled fantastic; by dinner time, everyone was definitely ready to eat.

I had figured, since I'd used a 4-pound chuck roast, that we'd have half of it that night, and the rest the next day for sandwiches and, finally, hash for dinner. Great idea - except that my oldest, who had two hollow legs, finished it off during the night.

Years later, when my ex- and I had split up, I was helping him find an apartment. At one complex (one that had an efficiency for rent), we stopped by the office manager's apartment so we could go to the nearby efficiency. Darned if his wife wasn't cooking a pot roast, the scent of which reminded my ex- and me of Grandma's pot roast. That clinched the deal on the efficiency! (Yes, he rented it.)

Grandma also specialized in her homemade oatmeal and peanut butter cookies, which she always seemed to have on hand, and which, when I was growing up, she'd always bring to our house when she visited, regaling my brother, sister and me of her childhood.

My other grandma had a recipe for her quick Mac and Cheese that she used to fix for my dad and his brother Don when they were kids. It is incredibly simple (macaroni and Cheese Whiz), and kid-friendly.

Then there's the Chocolate Cream Pie.

Greg, at 10

I had a boyfriend, Tom, who loved Chocolate Cream Pie; it was his all time favorite. Shortly after my family moved from Connecticut back to New York, Tom came for a weekend visit. He was planning to fly back Sunday night. But before he left, Mom insisted on fixing a large Sunday dinner in the early afternoon. Of course, I had to fix the chocolate cream pie, right? I mean, it was my boyfriend's favorite! And how difficult could it be? Pie crust (I'd use my great grandmother's recipe), chocolate pudding, and whipped cream. Easy enough, right?

Wrong! Somehow, I managed to get the pie crust to taste like undercooked pizza crust (while burning the outer edges of it!), I burned the chocolate pudding, and the whipped cream got whipped half-way to butter!!! Yeah, it was memorable!

When it came time to serve dessert, the pie was cut into six slices, and everyone got one. But one bite...I couldn't finish my piece. Neither could Tom, nor my sister, Mom, Dad...the only one who could eat it was my kid brother. At 10, he would eat anything that didn't eat him first.

"If anyone doesn't want their pie, I'll eat it!" he announced. Immediately, five plates got pushed toward him.

About this time, the phone rang; it was one of my sister's friends. Dad - who'd answered the phone - was laughing so hard about the pie - yes, it was that bad! - that he couldn't talk, and handed the phone to me. I was laughing hard, and handed the phone to my sister. The phone made the rounds, until it was finally handed to my brother.

"Yeah, I'll tell her to call you," he told our sister's friend. "But I don't know what they're all laughing about. Robin made a pie for her boyfriend - and it's great! And you know the best part? I get to eat the whole thing!"

For years afterward, whenever Dad would come to visit, he'd inform me, "I don't care what you cook, just don't make that Chocolate Cream Pie!"

I guess we all have comfort foods, and stories about food. Yes, I've got more food stories, but they can wait for another time.

In the meantime, anyone up for a good Chocolate Cream Pie?

Note: Check out my e-cookbook, Off the Wall Cooking.

Have a Nice Day!

There was a time, from maybe 1989 through the early '90s, when I did stand-up comedy. While I never made it big, I did enjoy doing it during those four years and change.

I'd worked at a local hospital, doing a temporary, part-time job, working weekend nights, where a couple of my coworkers mentioned I should do stand-up comedy. When a local coffee house opened up, after I'd left the job, I decided to give it a try. Every Saturday night, for 15 minutes, sometimes a little longer (if the next act wasn't quite ready), I honed my craft. The first few times, I only got an occasional polite laugh; it took a while before I was comfortable enough to actually be able to be elicit real laughs.

While it might've been tempting to simply come up with a string of jokes ("What did one traffic light say to the other traffic light?" "Stop looking! I'm changing!"), I opted to go with real life stuff. And why not? I was going through a divorce (okay, it was early in the divorce) and raising four kids. Anyone who's ever been married and/or had kids knows that there are times when things can be downright funny, in a weird way.

After I'd been doing stand-up at CAMS (the name of the coffee house in Pinellas Park, Fla.) for a while, I branched out to a couple of other places, though not too often. But no matter the venue, it felt good getting laughs while telling about the craziness of life.

So, for old times' sake, here's one of the segments I did, both at CAMS and a couple of other places. I'm updating it a little, but not much, and deleting a little.

So, I'm thinking about getting a dog to replace our old dog who died...15 years ago. Osha wasn't quite the dog I'd planned to get. I'd had my heart set on getting a DOG, one that was big enough that if anyone was stupid enough to break into our house, would use a massive paw to push that person onto a chair, use another massive paw to push the phone over to that person, then demand that he or she call 9-1-1 to get the police to pick up his sorry butt. And if that call wasn't made fast enough, that dog would then stand up and insist, "I mean now."

Instead, we ended up with Osha, a silly Cocker Spaniel pup, the runt of the litter.

I should've known we were getting her when a friend whose dog had had pups called up. "How about bringing the kids over? We can hang out for a couple of hours." It was only after we got there that I discovered there was one pup who hadn't been claimed.

That evening, when my other-half came home from work, I told him I was planning to get a dog for the kids. His immediate response was, "You bring that dog home, I'll pack up and move out within 24 hours!"

The dog was in the house the next day. Took the man two years to get the hint.

But that's beside the point. I discovered things about dogs, one of which is that they hate when you blow in their face. But take 'em for a car ride, and immediately, their head is out the window, getting wind in their face.

Kind-of reminds me of my friend, Sue. When we'd go out, I had to drive, as she'd always have her head out the window, especially at the beach. "Look at that guy! Looklooklook! Ooooh...wooow!" But blow in her face, she'd go nuts!

Of course, we all have things that work our last nerves. One of my pet peeves is the phrase Have a nice day!

Picture this: You're at work, near the end of your shift. You're going out that evening with your better-half for your 20th anniversary...until he calls to inform you he's leaving your for his very young, very rich, very good-looking, very male secretary (and you think you know someone!).

So you head home, and there, in your front yard, are several news crews from the major networks, and different news shows - 20/20, 48 hours, 60 minutes, Dateline - and you're sure Geraldo Rivera is skulking around somewhere. Something about your son being the U.S. connection for some major drug cartel.

You manage to get inside to find the phone ringing, only to find equally interesting news from your daughter.

So you sneak out the back door to avoid the news crews, head to the store, and pick up some basic comfort food: a container of hot mac and cheese from the deli, a double batch of brownies from the bakery, two gallons-worth of Ben & Jerry's Cherry Garcia, and a friendly bottle of alcohol...only to have the cashier tell you to have a nice day. Yeah, you have a nice day, see how you like it!

Another thing that bugs me is asking to borrow my car. There's a reason behind this.

Now, keep in mind that I don't have any medical problem that'll cause my demise in any two-hour period of time.

So, my oldest son borrowed my car so he and his girlfriend (we'll call her Denise) could go to a friend's birthday party.

Two hours later, son called up. The conversation went as follows:

SON: Hi, Mom, how are you?

ME: Fine. How are you?

SON: I'm fine.

ME: How's Denise?

SON: She's fine.

ME: How's my car?

SON: Denise and I are fine.

ME: How bad's the car?

SON: The cop says it's totaled...(At this point, there's a metal-on-metal noise from hell in the background). And the wrecker is hooking up to the car...(and then there was a slight pause, before he added) But, Mom, I want you to know that the palm tree is doing just fine...

Turns out, a car full of tourists was in the center lane. The driver did one of those infamous "Oooh, look at that house, Ethel," where he points at said house...and the car drifts the way his arm is pointing, running my son, his girlfriend, and our full-size station wagon into said tree. That driver later told me (after the cop brought him back to the scene and I'd caught a ride there), "I'm sorry, I just didn't see the car."

I had no idea Ford was building Stealth cars...

Well, the man's insurance did pay for me to get another car. Sure, it was a used car, but it's nice enough. Four doors, six cylinders, comfortable-enough ride.

So, I headed over to show Sue, who, to my chagrin, just got a brand new Corvette. Bright blue. V8 engine.

But my car's all paid for.

She has a Corvette.

But mine has decent gas mileage...

Did I mention the 'Vette?

Suddenly, it hit me...I could've had a V8!

About a block from Sue's place my car sputtered to a stop. Sure, the gas gauge was on 'E', but in my defense, my previous two cars had none-functioning gas gauges that always read E. We just had to make sure to top 'em off periodically.

I walked the last block to her house, and her husband offered to take me to get gas for my car.

As he looked for his keys, Sue informed me, "That's just like you to run out of gas! By the way, wanna see...?" (Yeah, you guessed it...the 'Vette.)

By now, her husband was ready to bring me on the gas run, so I turned to Sue, blew in her face, and told her to have a nice day.